


i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

by lionoflannistarth (eldritch_beau)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Jaime Lannister has fatal heart eye syndrome, No Twincest, Slow Burn, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, did i say pining because lots of pining(tm), lots of flirting and banter, siblings drama, the lannisters are a dysfunctional bunch whew, the usual J/B now served with shrapnels in Jaime's chest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-14 02:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20593340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritch_beau/pseuds/lionoflannistarth
Summary: || Ironman AU ||“What the fuck have you done to me?” Jaime’s voice is shaky as he attempts to tear out the wires with his bare hands.Her fingers are prying his away in an instant, “Don’t.” she warns sternly, “it took me five hours to save you, you arenotkilling yourself. Not on my watch!”





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanna preface this by saying this is indulgent as fuck so watch out for dialogues you might recognize if you're a fan of either franchise! :)
> 
> Also, the premise of this fic was inspired by [Wackygoofball](https://wackygoofball.tumblr.com/post/186751867362/hi-your-mood-boards-are-absolutely-lovely-i-was) who let me borrow the Yinsen/Brienne parallel so thanks to her! :)

The first thing he feels is pain, pure and unadulterated like palms of molten lead pressing down against his ribs, making breathing next to unbearable. Jaime shoots up on the makeshift bed with a loud gasp, trying to shake off an unshakable weight, his eyes wide and searching. _ Where is he? _With a few rapid blinks to focus his gaze, he wills the room to stop moving. All he can make out is he’s in a dingy cell somewhere, underground. Panic rises in his throat and the heaviness in his chest only intensifies, almost like it’s trying to pull him under again.

“You’re awake.” A voice comes from somewhere in the dark and Jaime has to squint as a warm hand rests against his forehead, “the fever has receded, but—”

“Where am I?” he tries to ask but he isn’t sure if he quite succeeds. His voice barely makes a squeak and the effort of it sends a sharp stab of pain through his chest. Jaime tries to think of the last thing he remembers, and finds only a throbbing headache. He was near Riverrun… at Fairmarket... the last thing he remembers is an explosive branded ‘Lannister Corporations’ counting down to its inevitable detonation. He remembers scrambling to get away.

And then it all goes black.

“Lannister? Lannister?” someone persists, bringing him back and Jaime wants to snarl in irritation, _fuck off! _He raises his head to say just that (ignoring the crick it gives his neck) and sets eyes on perhaps the ugliest face he’s ever seen.

Even in the dim light of the room, he can make out a twice-broken nose, too-thick lips, skin splattered with an unnatural amount of freckles, all sitting mismatched on a face that only perhaps a very dedicated mother could love.

“Are you a woman?” he croaks, his face twisted in pain. She frowns, ignores his question.

“How are you feeling?” she asks instead, bringing his mind back to his aching body as shock rolls through him again and he starts to shake. As he tries to draw a deep breath to calm himself, Jaime’s ribs protest with searing pain and Jaime would scream, he would scream so loud if he had any air in his lungs at all. He paws his chest, trying to pull off whatever it is that’s pulling him down. If only he could get through these layers of bandages and tear out whatever was so godsdamned heavy... but there are wires hooked to the center of his chest, coiling all the way down to the foot of his weak-legged bed, where they are attached to —of all things, _ is that a car battery? _

“What the fuck have you done to me?” Jaime’s voice is shaky as he attempts to tear out the wires with his bare hands, eager to get rid of whatever the fuck this is, to get rid of this painful intrusion in his body but his hands have been robbed of their strength, the bandages are tied around too tight for him to do any real damage.

Her fingers are prying his away in an instant, “Don’t.” she warns sternly, “it took me five hours to save you, you are _ not _ killing yourself on my watch!”

He stares at her, incredulous, wanting to ask so many things and unable to voice any of them.

She explains then, as slowly as she can so Jaime can catch her words the second time round. It makes sense in a distant sort of way, not in the kind of way that this is a thing that _ has _ happened to _ him _. That he has been kidnapped and it was in that kidnapping attempt that the bomb detonated had caused pieces of its metal to lodge in his muscles, stay suspended in his bloodstream, waiting to flow to his heart and tear him apart from the inside.

“It’s an electromagnet,” she carefully puts his hand back on that portion of his chest that had been carved away and replaced with cold metal, like she’s acquainting him to a particularly skittish horse, “to keep the schrapnel from reaching your heart. Best I could do under the circumstances.” She shrugs at the car battery, drawing her hand away from him.

His own instantly fall into his lap, his breath coming in shallow as a response to his broken body and his now breaking mind. _What the fuck_ _what the fuck_ _how is he even alive?_ Is this medically possible? Having an electromagnet in your chest? Hooked to a car battery? _What the fuck._ A car battery can only run for so long.

“You should have let me die.” his voice sounds as hollow as he feels, staring at the bandages on his chest. He can feel his pulse, steady and drumming. He _ will _ die (he knows enough about machines to know this much). He will die alone and stranded in this cave, next to an ugly beast of a stranger, as pieces of metal claw into his heart and kill him slowly, _ painfully. _

“No.” She says stubbornly and it compels Jaime to meets her eyes. Her face might be dull and homely at best but when he rests his gaze on her eyes, he can’t seem to look away. Even in this dingy light, her eyes are nothing short of astonishing. He hates how it makes his breath catch.

He is about to ask her who _ she _ is, how she got here, who she is working for and tell her to fucking pull the plug on him already instead of letting the shards bite into his heart and kill him nice and slow—when the latched door outside the cell creaks and a bolt turns and then a man walks in, flanked by two larger men on either side.

“The Golden Prince ith awake! Rithe and thine Lannithter!” he speaks with a lisp and his voice booms with the promise of cruelty. He jerks his head to the woman, who he realizes has stepped in front of him as if she wants to shield him from them. And if she could, she would.

“He’s still very weak, you can’t—” she starts to speak and Jaime realizes with a start that she is enormously tall, she might even have an inch or two on him. With incredible broad shoulders. She blocks him from view completely. If she hadn’t spoken, he’d have taken her for a man and not thought to question it at all.

Two burly men roughly shove her out of the way and Jaime wants to stop them but he is weak, stumbling and unsure on his feet as he tries to stand up, the wires pulling him to the floor and the other man laughs in his face. Hoat, the man with the lisp, the leader of the pack tells them to ‘_ hold off the big bitch _’ as he strolls over to Jaime.

“Not tho much the Golden Lion now, are you Lannithter?” the rat-faced man taunts before Jaime has to sit back down, his head spinning with the exertion of simply standing up. Hoat looms over him ominously.

“You’ll make me your thhiny thingamagik?” He pulls Jaime’s head back, pain spreading across his scalp as Jaime attempts to thwart the hand away, but his bones are so tired, his muscles are so sore he couldn’t hurt a fly even if he wanted to.

“Go make your own thinamagik,” Jaime spits in Hoat’s face, “and fuck yourself with it.”

“The mouth on you,” a sharp smack stings his jaw, “The Lion’s Roar, ithn’t that what you call ith?”

He does. When he came up with it at 2:30AM, the name was quite neat for a hypothetical weapon. It would be terrifying if it ever existed. Manufactured by the company that he doesn’t even like to work in, but does anyway because there isn’t much else to do. Reading had never been his forte, but making things and unmaking them, now_ that _ he was really good at. Taking things apart and rebuilding, from remote controlled cars during his childhood, small-range drones during his teenage years to his first AI bot at seventeen and military grade weapons at the tender age of twenty three. That has been his life since. His father doesn’t nag him constantly about managing the business anymore so Jaime is content with spending his time in R&D, letting Uncle Kevan take the lead where Cersei doesn’t want to.

The Lion’s Roar had been Jaime’s latest exploit. But only in theory, nothing else. He was playing around with how much destruction can be caused with how little energy and had stumbled upon it. The Lion's Roar was a tiny missile, capable of polishing whole cities off the map. Too powerful, perhaps the most powerful missile he's ever made so he had tucked the idea away in a folder and thrown it away. Didn’t talk about it with Uncle Kevan or Tyrion, who had washed his hands off the company a long time ago following an argument with their father. A chill runs down his spine at the thought that the Lannister servers that he had long thought secure were possibly compromised. As must be some of the people at Casterly Rock that he didn’t think twice to suspect. _ Fuck. _ The weapon was just an idea, a hyperbole Jaime had fixated on just for kicks. The idea that someone as revolting as Hoat could dare ask— no, _ force _ Jaime to make something so destructive—was hilarious to him.

“You’d have to kill me before I make _ anything _ for you,” Jaime says and means it. He would rather die than give life to that weapon—not for his father’s company and certainly not for this lowlife. He wonders if his father is looking for him as they speak. Tywin Lannister may not be a good father, but he would hunt down whoever tries to as much hurt his perfect legacy, his children,“if my father doesn’t kill you first.”

“Your father?” the laughter that echoes against the walls makes Jaime tense with a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach, “Lannister,” he says slowly, with emphasis, “your father is _ dead. _”

—

Jaime doesn’t believe it initially. But the tone of Hoat’s voice, the hateful glee only seems to confirm what he doesn’t want to believe.

Hoat’s henchmen hold the giant doctor prisoner, just like him. He wonders who she is, they had tried to pull her away from the cell as she kicked and screamed and Jaime knew in his gut she would be hurt or killed or worse if he lets her out of his sight.

So he pretended to have a seizure (a dangerous gamble) and when they let her stay, it helped Jaime learn two very important things. One, they won’t kill him, they need him alive too much. And two, they’re going to do everything to not only keep him alive but also keep him secured. Which means he can’t escape. Not that he _ could _ escape, Jaime frowns, he can barely walk ten paces before collapsing, the prospect of _ escaping _ while dragging a car battery along is so impossible that he gives a humorless laugh.

“I’ll do it,” he says to Hoat’s visibly surprised face. They hadn’t expected Jaime to cave so quick, “I’ll do it under _ one _condition.”

“You’re not in a position to make any requethtth, Lannithter.”

“I need her” he jerks his chin, “the doctor. I need her help.”

“The big bitch?” Hoat laughs but gestures to let her go, “that’s the whore you choose?”

Jaime clenches his jaw, about to say something biting when Hoat cuts him off.

“Have it your way then,” He nods to his men who throw her to the floor, “you make me my weapon. And you,” he gestures to the doctor, “live _only_ as long as he does.”

She stares back at Hoat unflinchingly as he bolts the cell behind him, leaving the two of them in the dimming light.

“I’m not going to help you” she says mulishly, “whatever it is he’s asking you to make, I won’t be a part of it.”

“Of course you will,” he says as suave as he dares, just to have her look at him, to see if she recognizes him, “you know who I am, yes?”

“Jaime Lannister,” her voice is guarded but her eyes burn with righteous disapproval, “the man who helps his father make gold by selling weapons of mass destruction. A war profiteer.”

Her words are nothing he hasn't heard before but her eyes condemn him with such unbearable judgment that he finds himself mirroring her disgust, “Honey, you don’t know anything about me.”

He doesn't know where that name come from and it startles Brienne just the same before she can continue her righteous onslaught.

“Oh, do you _ deny _ you make weapons?”

“No, but my weapons are to_ protect _ the kingdom. And the Lannister gold funds farming in the Westerlands to keep half of the kingdom from starving--”

“_ Do you deny you make money from these weapons? _”

“No, but--”

“Then you are a war profiteer.” She says with finality, “You arm the King’s men with missiles they don’t care to control. You fund the war which in turn funds your profits. And you do it by hurting the people you claim to _ protect _. You’re a war profiteer, Mr. Lannister. And you’re despicable.”

He is taken aback by her frankness, as he is by the acid in her tone. Her face is an unattractive scowl and he doesn’t care what she thinks, he doesn’t! But it _ bothers _ him. He wants to have a better answer, to tell her she’s wrong, that the weapons are made to _ save _ people not hurt them. But his mind is drawn back to his last encounter with his own creation—the Lannister bomb detonating in the Fairmarket where he was captured and suddenly, he isn’t so sure of the purpose of his weapons anymore.

“How did they have a Lannister bomb?” he wonders aloud, mostly to himself, “We only sell those to the Southron military. How did they get it?”

The wry snort she gives at that is infuriating.

“You’re a great beast of a woman,” he says to hurt but she doesn’t even flinch, and it only spurs him on, “If you hate me so much why didn’t you just kill me when you had the chance?”

“I swore an oath,” she says, raising her chin, “and I honor it even if it’s you, Mr. Lannister.”

“Call me Jaime, please.” he sneers, “Mr. Lannister is, in case you haven’t heard, my dead father.”

There is a beat of silence before she responds, “I am sorry... about your father”, sounding genuinely sympathetic.

Jaime shrugs. Grief for his father is a strange thing. Not close enough to be significantly tangible, yet not distant enough to be set carelessly aside, Jaime is stranded somewhere in the middle— oscillating between fleeting moments of indecisive discomfort, a vague sense of loss he can’t place and mourning a father he never truly had. Tywin Lannister had always seemed so invincible, immortal, as if the Stranger himself would succumb to Tywin’s icy, unshakeable ‘no’. It’s strange and unbelievable to think of Tywin Lannister as dead. Jaime shakes the thought off. He has more pressing matters now.

When he raises his head, she is looking at him keenly. If he didn’t know how much she despises him, he might even think she was concerned.

“I’m not going to make the weapon.” he voice is lower, as he finds himself eager to reassure her, “not for _ them _, not for anybody.”

“But y-you…” her brows scrunch and two frown lines form between her brows, “you told them—”

“I know what I said.” he eyes the wires, palms the bandages on his chest, “how long do you think I’ve got?”

She doesn’t answer for a while and Jaime wonders if the dour woman has even heard him. Just as he’s about to ask again she cuts him off, replying solemnly, “two weeks, two and a half at best” then she shrugs apologetically, “sorry.”

Two weeks until the battery runs dry and schrapnels make their way to his heart, two weeks to wait for torturous death, two weeks with a broken body and a broken conscience.

Two weeks feels like too much and too little, all at once.

Jaime laughs, a brittle sound that escapes his lips and morphs into a series of coughs as his ribs protest in agonizing pain. She is upon him in an instant, her palm pressed gently against his shoulder, helping him stay upright.

“You should’ve let me die, wench” Jaime snarls, thwarting her hand away before falling back onto the makeshift bed, hoping that he never wakes up again.

—

Brienne watches as Jaime Lannister stays put in his corner of the cell, lying down or staring off blankly into space. She watches as they bring him meals and he refuses to eat, watches as he only flinches or hisses as she dresses his wounds, no other indication that he’s actually there. She watches as he wobbles and falls.

His bright green eyes grow dimmer every day.

—

“Jaime” she shakes his shoulder gently. She can’t take it anymore. “Jaime, what are you doing?”

“Dying” he replies, not looking at her, not looking at anything at all.

“You can’t die” she says, trying to snap him out of it, but his face is blank, as if he’s vowed to do just that._ I can and I will _ , he seems to say with those vacant eyes, _ watch me. _

“You’re a coward” Brienne says and something stirs in his eyes. She presses on, “You have to live. You’re just going to let them win? I saved your life for what, for this? For you to throw it away?”

“What life?” he growls, standing up too fast, his eyes wild with accusation, “You ugly beast, you only extended the inevitable. I _ will _ die, even if they don’t kill me. I’m attached me to a car battery. I can’t run, I can’t hide. What do I care? I only have a week to live.”

She doesn’t flinch from his gaze. Brienne meets the wildfire in his eyes with her own blue calmness. Her voice is softer, her eyes shining with a silent plea when she says, “then it’s a very important week for you, isn’t it?”

Jaime looks like he’s about to protest, about to snap back with a cutting remark to make her flinch, to push her away. But he doesn’t. He draws back, like he’s second guessing himself and he falls back on his bed, facing the wall.

When he gets up about an hour later, there is a quiet sort of determination drawn over his features.

“Where’s the inventory Hoat left?” He asks, shuffling his feet over to the center of the cell where Hoat’s men had arranged the things they thought he would need for the weapon. Brienne feels a rush of pride at having knocked him out of his stupor, followed by a surge of disappointment that he is choosing to build destruction with his hands, and use that to steal his way out of his prison.

“I’m not making the weapon,” he says, like he could read her mind, “but we have one week.”

“One week?” she asks, trying to keep her voice neutral, “to do what?”

“To get out of here,” he shrugs as if it's the simplest thing in the world, “but first,” he taps at his chest. Winces at the sudden pain it causes him. “We need to get me a new duracell”

—

“For the last time,” she grits her teeth as she hands him the wrench, “my name isn’t _honey_. It’s Brienne.”

Jaime grins as he takes the wrench from her and tightens a screw before he continues to work with the soldering iron. He checks on the residue that has collected in the boiling liquid hooked to pieces of metal dipped in a catalysing agent.

“Come look at this then," he purrs, _"Brienne"_.

She frowns at him only a bit before the frown is directed at the residue, “What is that?”

“Distilled valyrian ore. Very rare.” he says as he picks up another block of a deconstructed metal, “there’s only .2 grams on each of these. I need at least 1.8 grams. Go put those big muscles to use and break me some more from the pile over there.”

"You’re insufferable” she scowls but picks the hammer up and starts breaking the blocks apart.

Jaime sits at the edge of his bed, still weak on his feet and lets his gaze wander over her. He secretly admires the strength of her arms when she catches him when he falls, and picks him up and gently puts him down in his bed when he’s overexerted himself for the day. He also admires the gentleness of her fingers when she dresses the wound near his heart, ever so careful of hurting him. He watches her work, stealing glances at the way the muscles of her arms flex. For some unfathomable reason, he seems to find_ that _ attractive… but he would rather die than ever admit that to her. He glances at the car battery she used to save his life and feels a sense of gratitude. _ He has never thanked her _ , he realizes, and now the life she gave him is at its last legs. In a day or two it will give out and then Jaime will finally have his death wish. He is tempted to take it, to let himself succumb to failure. But Brienne has given him hope; given him a life when he wasn’t even sure he wanted it anymore. She called this his ‘very important week’. _ I’ll show her _, he swears.

Determination steeling his features, Jaime goes back to work.

—

“Jaime! Jaime!” Brienne shakes him awake, “are you okay? where does it hurt?”

He blinks, clearly disoriented as he sits up on his bed. He meets her eyes in the semi-darkness and he stutters, “it doesn’t, I- just a dream”. His gaze drifts to where she’s holding his arm in a tight grip and Brienne lets go immediately.

She nods curtly once before rising to go back to her corner of the cell, separated by all the metal and equipment Jaime has dismantled to create… whatever the hell it is he’s creating. He tells her it’s not a weapon, but he doesn’t tell her much else.

Before she has so much as taken a step, Jaime’s hand clutches at her forearm. “Stay” he croaks, his voice still very raw, so he clears his throat and asks meekly again, “will you stay?”

Brienne doesn’t know what he means, but his voice sounds desperate enough so she kneels by the bed and rests her head against the wall. “Sure” she answers, ignoring how his hand on her arm has sent her pulse into a mad frenzy.

Jaime looks like he’s about to say something for a long minute, but then he seems to decide against it. His hand drifts down her arm, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake before it comes to her palm and he takes her hand in his. Brienne stays as still as the night, until Jaime’s grip loosens just a bit, his breath coming out more evenly as he starts to fall back asleep. Brienne stays, sitting up against the wall, drifting.

“Brienne?” his voice is a whisper in the dark and Brienne could almost believe that she’d imagined it but then Jaime gives her hand a soft squeeze.

“Hmm?” She responds. He raises his head in the dark, and she can tell he’s looking straight at her.

“Thank you for saving my life.” he says, very softly very earnestly into the dark before falling back into his bed.

She doesn’t pull her hand away. Neither does he.

—

“What is this?” Brienne frowns at the round object in his palm. It glows a bright white, soft blue at the edges as Jaime lets her hold it.

“A glorified pacemaker, a small-scale reactor” Jaime takes it back and taps his chest, “a nuclear battery, if you will. It can run me for a thousand years, or run something _ very powerful _ for fifteen minutes.”

Brienne eyes him dubiously, “something_ very powerful _?”

He wishes he didn’t find the suspicion in her bright blue eyes insulting. _ You still don’t trust me, Brienne. _ “Yes” he replies instead, “our ride out of here.”

She looks skeptical, “_ this thing? _”

“Yes, yes,” he waves his hand as he drags himself and the car battery to his bed, “as guys with small dicks will tell you, size doesn’t matter.” He shrugs and then adds as an afterthought, “I wouldn’t know, of course.”

Brienne flushes a hot red at that and Jaime is suddenly delighted. He didn’t know _ she could do that! _ That he had the power to make that happen to her. To make her blush so furiously with coarse language oh, it’s invigorating, he _ must _ do it more now. “but what this thing can power, _ will matter _.”

“This thing? Are you sure?” She stays rooted to her spot, inspecting the reactor but Jaime can tell she’s trying to cool off her blush so he won’t see it. _ Too late Brienne, _ he thinks gleefully, _ too late. _

“Yes, now come here,” he sits down as comfortably as he can against the wall of his bed and spreads his thighs just to scandalize her, “and help me... _ put it in _.” He emphasizes wickedly, enjoying this too much as she blushes a darker scarlet and she is glowering at him furiously and Jaime can’t help it, he can’t help but grin at this big brute of a woman who saved his life.

Now if only he can live long enough to save hers.

—


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne nods in the dark and takes up her usual post against the wall next to his hemp-strewn bed but Jaime doesn’t let his full request die on his lips like he did the last time.
> 
> “No, not there…” he shifts until his back hits the wall and he is facing her, “here. On the bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, i changed the name of the fic. the plot is better fleshed out in my head now so i felt this was a more appropriate title given what's to come. Sorry for the confusion! i'm an absolute idiot 100% of the time so it took me a while to find the right title!)

Pain burns hot in his chest, like a fire has been lit on the inside of his skin and _Brienne_... Jaime feels like his insides have been dipped in ice all of a sudden. Brienne lies on the ground, frothing red at the mouth, eyes helpless and frantic and Jaime can hear himself screaming, crumbling. He attempts to reach out but his wrists strain against chains woven out of wires. He screams again, but no sound escapes, her name is stuck at the back of his throat. Angry hands claw his chest open, pulling his heart out and leaving nothing there. Voices like Brienne’s ring in his ears, ‘war profiteer’ they call him, ‘despicable’ and hateful, true things as a timer counts down somewhere in the back of his mind. It's noise gets louder and louder, closer still.. He wrists burn as he pulls against them, trying to get the Brienne, but he knows. He knows it's too late. It's too late, but he can't give up he can't--

The light at the back of his eyes seems to get brighter and brighter and brighter until it's blinding and he is plunged into a sea of darkness. Water laps at his feet, icy against his ankles and Jaime can barely make out the belly of the Rock.

A figure lurks in the periphery of his vision and Jaime would rush to it, but his chains still hold him back. Bloody and beaten, weak and drifting, Jaime squints, focuses his gaze through the thick fog in his mind and no, _no_. It's Brienne again, lifeless blue eyes staring back at him. Wide and accusing. _You could’ve done more_, she says with those cold lifeless eyes, lips unmoving, _why didn’t you do more?_

Jaime starts awake to see Brienne beside him again, hand on his shoulder shaking him back to this side of wakefulness. He can’t quite see her but the soft light in his chest illuminates her just a smidge. The blue of the reactor that she had helped install, reflecting off the blue of her eyes sets a strange sensation off in his chest. He reaches out in the dark and clutches her arm.

This is her. _This._ Warm skin, wide eyes. _This is Brienne_, he repeats in his head, and tries to anchor himself to that truth. But fear is a slippery thing. It still slithers down the back if his spine that if he lets go, something _terrible_ will happen and he can't, _he can't_ let her out of his sight.

“Stay” he asks, voice raw with the desperation of a man who needs _something_ from her, something he can’t voice. Something _selfish._ Yet he asks again, “Stay with me.”

Brienne nods in the dark and takes up her usual post beside his hemp-strewn bed, head against the wall but Jaime doesn’t let his full request die on his lips like he did the last time.

“No, not there…” he shifts until his back hits to the wall and he is facing her, “here. On the bed.”

“Jaime…” she sounds like she’s about to say no and a gush of fear and worry settles in his belly at the thought of being turned down by her. He lets go of her arm. “Not like _that._” he assures her, a bit too angrily, “but only if you want to.” he adds in a voice much, much smaller.

Brienne stands there, making up her mind and Jaime doesn’t know if she’s said anything, is sure that if she did he would’ve definitely missed it over the sound of his heart pounding against his chest like he’s just run a marathon.

“What?” he asks, because he definitely saw her mouth forming words, and caught none of it.

“I said, what if it breaks?” she gestures to the bed.

“Just lie down Brienne, nothing will happen.” he tries to keep his voice neutral but it’s hard to tell over the pain spreading from his chest.

“Okay” she says in what sounds like it was more to herself than to him and she gingerly places her weight on the bed. When assured that it won’t break, she lies down next to him, facing away.

Jaime has had women in his bed before. And all of these women he has wanted to fuck and naught much else. But having Brienne with him, on a bed that isn’t even _his_ is different; it feels like nothing familiar, nothing he’s ever known. And his heart won’t stop pumping in his chest like it’s trying to squeeze in a lifetime of heartbeats in these few minutes before he tries to put a plan into action that will end with his inevitable demise._ But she might live, _he thinks. S_he might get to walk away and maybe ‘despicable war profiteer’ won’t be how she thinks of me when she remembers me._

A horrific realization washes over him like an overwhelming current on the Sunset Sea, a sudden revelation-- _he_ _cares about her_. Only the gods know _why_ he cares about this beast of a woman, why what she thinks of him matters so much when she surely must matter too little. Maybe it's because he owes her a debt, of life. That would explain his intense desire to protect her from harm. Because he surely hates her and she hates him, and yet, somehow with dexterity that is astonishing for her large form, she’s wedged through the opening she carved to save his heart and nested herself there. Jaime stares wide awake at the back of her head, feeling awake and alone and singularly alarmed.

She must have fallen asleep.

“Brienne?” he tests.

A beat of silence and then she responds, “hmm?”

“How did you end up here?” He has never asked her anything about her life, wallowing in his own self-pity like some miserable fuck while she fought to save his life. As if his life’s ever been worth much at all.

She doesn’t respond for so long that Jaime starts to believe she’s really fallen asleep. He starts to drift himself as well when she speaks.

“I was based in Riverrun for four years. Medic. I served as a Captain in the Southron army with... with my _friend_, Renly.” There’s something about the way she says ‘friend’ that makes Jaime’s heart clutch a little. “I was at Fairmarket when the it hit."

She hesitates just a smidge, "I was supposed to meet Renly and Loras there for drinks but...” Her voice catches at the mention of Renly again, “the blast happened and there was fire everywhere, this girl next to me was bleeding, crying. So many civilians in distress, all around me. I couldn’t _not _help."

Jaime nods solemnly into his pillow. He has been less than polite to her since they’ve met and she has carefully patched him up every time. She has scowled through it and often taken the bait on his provocations and bit back with scathing remarks of her own. But she has never denied him any medical assistance.

Her voice shakes when she continues, and Jaime wonders if she is just thinking out loud at this point, "I… I don't even know what happened to Renly. I was busy pulling civilians out of the mess when two of Hoat's men drew up next to me and asked if I was a doctor. When I said I was, they knocked me out and the next thing I know…” she’s still facing away from him and Jaime can’t help this bad feeling settling into his bones when she says, “I wake up in this room, with cold water over my face and they’re asking me to operate on you.”

Guilt hits again like a ton of bricks swung against his open chest. _She is in this mess because of me_. It _had_ been a Lannister bomb that had gone off in the Fairmarket. A Lannister weapon he had made specifically to protect the Southron army had bled civilians in Riverrun instead. How many Lannister bombs had detonated like this? On either sides of the border? Up there in the North and down here in the South, claiming lives upon lives with the reckless push of a button? A strange chill grips his spine. All this destruction had always seemed so distant to him, not so… tangible. It existed only in the blurred lines of political unrest, in the borders where it is soldiers and armies fighting for what they believe in, not civilians at a local marketplace. Those were two different things. Right? _Right?_

But he had only been a fool to distance himself from the consequences of his actions. _Make more weapons for me Jaime,_ his father had said,_ it’s one thing you’re not incompetent at. _A vague hope rotting itself in his chest that perhaps this will finally give him his father's approval, maybe a smile if not a 'well done, son' and Jaime had vaulted himself headfirst into his father's dream. Making more, more always more.

The one time he tried to make less lethal ammunition (ones that disarm not dismember) his father had thrown it back in his face._ What children’s nonsense is this. Jaime?_ He remembers Tywin Lannister saying, with clear instructions that translated to _if you can’t make the enemy bleed you’re as good as useless to me._

But his father’s dead now. Consumed by the same violence he had advocated for. It makes Jaime feel conflicted, angry. Thinking about his father is always like swinging at a hornet's nest. Nothing but trouble and unrest.

He shakes himself out of it. A child was crying, a child. Ordinary people caught in the crossfire that he's had a good hand in orchestrating. _Fuck._ Breathing seems to get even harder with all of the realizations sinking in. He draws close and curves himself next to Brienne, careful not to touch her or startle her. He knows she can feel the heat off his body, is as aware of him as he is of her. She tenses and Jaime softly rests just his forehead against her shoulder.

“I am so sorry,” he says, breath hot on her shoulder blade, hoping to convey everything that he can't explain with words.

“It isn’t your—”

“It is.” he tells her, his heart weary with remorse, “the bomb that detonated was... It was Lannister Corps., one of my own making. I didn't know it then, but... it _is _my fault.”

She doesn’t say anything and Jaime wants to know what her silence means, does she see him for all his wretchedness and judge him guilty again? But he is guilty, guilty of just as much as his father, has the same blood on his hands as Tywin does. How will he ever make amends? _Can he even make amends?_ ‘War profiteer’. That’s exactly what he was. A rich man blinded by his own privilege, his ignorance... funding a war. And here he was, defending his right to make more weapons like a blind fool, an absolute utter idiot. Will she ever know how much he regrets it all now? How will he ever forgive himself? How can he live with a guilt as heavy as the reactor in his chest and twice as unbearable?

He is so engrossed in his thoughts that he doesn't notice that she's reached behind him and taken his hand in hers until she gives it a soft, careful squeeze. She doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t need to.

“I’ll get you out of here, Brienne” Jaime clutches at her hand like it’s the only lifeline he’ll ever have, “I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise.”

He doesn't know when he falls asleep but he does. With his hand tight and safe in hers.

\--

“How’s the new battery working out for you?” Brienne asks, soldering scraps of metal together like he asked her to.

“Are you concerned about me, Blue?” Jaime says over the racket of pretending to make Hoat his weapon, “isn’t that sweet, here I thought you hated me.”

“I am your doctor, of course I’m concerned,” she fires back, “and I still hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Jaime chuckles. He notices a nervous edge to his voice and hopes Brienne didn’t catch how desperately he wants it to be true.

“Yes, I do!” she insists and Jaime looks up to see her cheeks turning red, “you’re unbearable and so fucking smug about everything, just because you’re pretty you think—”

“You think I’m pretty?” he interrupts right away. The grin comes naturally. He hasn’t _felt_ pretty at all lately. Having dirt caked into his hair and his skin, torn ragged clothes on his torn ragged body, a blanket at night that itches constantly and a beard that’s been growing as much out of neglect as much as out of the need to avoid the nauseating feeling he gets lately whenever he catches a glimpse of his reflection on polished metal, it’s a far cry from the easy-going, ignorant, eager-to-please-his-father Jaime Lannister he used to see in the mirrors in the morning.

That Jaime Lannister doesn’t really exist anymore.

He watches Brienne’s nostrils flare and that in itself is its own reward. He wets his lower lip with the tip of his tongue, slowly and watches her face grow redder, her eyes angrier and Jaime slips and falls into those stunning blue eyes that are now glowing with the promise of retribution. He’s not going to tell her he picked the light blue casing of the arc reactor for her eyes. That would be like… admitting to something.

She huffs, “you’re so full of yourself, Lannister” and turns away from him, goes back to work.

\--

“Are you sure about this?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow at the blueprint for the second time, “This will need a lot of power.”

“For fifteen minutes” he taps his chest, “that’s a fair window, honey don’t you think?”

She bites down on her bottom lip, frowning at his chest with an intensity that makes his pulse stutter.

“And then what?” she asks quietly, jutting her chin at the glowing ball of blue on his chest, “what happens to you after those fifteen minutes? We don’t have any more valyrian ore for a backup reactor.”

Jaime clenches his jaw, turning away from her and is suddenly very absorbed in welding the chestplate together.

He doesn’t have the heart to fill that silence with a lie.

\--

Three nights later, in the restless hours between dusk and dawn when their captors are less guarded, Jaime finishes nailing the last screw on a giant metal armor. It looks ominous in its unpolished glory. Something you step into and never step op against. The metal is thick, bulletproof and heavy. Jaime wonders if he will be able to carry it, to walk and run in it if need be but there is no trial run, no second chances, no other option.

It has to be him.

He glances over at Brienne, asleep in her corner. _If I can save her,_ Jaime thinks, _just her..._

He picks up the blueprints and feeds them to the fire, hiding the secrets in the flames. Then he wakes Brienne.

"It's time."

\--

“There is no time!” Brienne bellows at him, fastening the metal around him as she boots up the system that pairs the reactor in his chest to his armor. It’s a death-trap. Jaime knows it. He had known it when he drew up the blueprint and now that he’s walking into it, he knows it even better. Held together by dismantled pieces of metal Jaime has beaten to obedience, the armor covers him from head to toe. This will be his coffin. He has fifteen minutes to get Brienne to safety.

She doesn’t know yet it’s all for her. She would never let him go through with this if she did.

They’d fooled Hoat’s men for long, but they can't stick around longer to test their luck. The ruse was going to be up as soon as someone realized that one of the goons who were supposed to be guarding were lying unconscious inside their door. Brienne's handiwork, and Jaime had admired her ability to deck them so fast so sure they didn't even have time to counterattack.

There is a faint noise of commotion outside. The reactor glows a hopeful blue, humming in his chest against the absolute suicide that this mission is, a beacon in this hopelessness that surrounds them. Jaime wishes he believed in gods, wishes had faith in something, any divine power to get _her_ through this even if he falls.

But he only has himself.

She is frantic, staring at the cracked screen as the numbers climb ever so slowly.

“Brienne, calm down. It’ll be fine, I promise.” He’s been making a lot of promises lately. He wonders if Brienne can tell which ones are true and which ones are false. He wonders if he can tell himself.

“Jaime” she starts to say, looking at him peculiarly, “Jaime, if something happens, I want you to--”

“No.” He says sullenly, he will not have this talk with her, will not entertain the thought of anything happening to her. “I’ll get you out of here, I promised.”

“Listen, you arrogant man!” she hisses, “if something happens, I want you to get out, don’t look back. Don’t come back for me. Tell Renly, if he’s still alive. He—he’ll tell my father.”

“You’re not going to die, you stubborn woman _stop _saying goodbye!” She can’t die. He will make sure that doesn’t happen even if it costs him his life. “And nobody has to call Renly!”

The thudding on the door stops altogether, an ominous silence settling in his bones. From the look in her eyes, Brienne feels it too.

The bootup is nearly complete when a battering ram resounds against the door. Brienne picks up the hammer she’d used to mine the valyrian ore, nervously looking over at him.

“Showtime” Jaime hits the fifteen minute timer on his hand and pulls his helmet down on his head, smiles at her once as he does so. He hopes Brienne didn’t notice how it did not touch his eyes.

\--

It’s all a blur of heat and violence, two flamethrowers in either hand that burn those who get too close and scare the others. Brienne has taken down two men all on her own and brandishes two automatics at her hips. She is fierce and determined, barks at him to keep moving forward as she watches his flanks. Under his helmet, Jaime is grinning from ear to ear at how they move in tandem, how easy it is to move with her. He is almost regretful that he won’t live past these fifteen minutes because he really_ really _wants to spar with her.

“Wench do you fence or box?” he asks out of nowhere and she replies with an incredulous, “what?!”

“If we both make it alive,” he is getting ahead of himself again but he can’t help it, “I want you to spar with me.”

“As in beat you up?” she says as she knocks down another one of Hoat’s slimy men.

“Yes, that’s what sparring means.” He says as he blocks another bullet from hitting Brienne.

“I’ve been wanting to hit you for days.” She says through clenched teeth and Jaime laughs.

"Honey if you wanted to _hit me_ so bad you could've just asked" he says, head-butting another guy into unconsciousness, "that bed was big enough for both of us."

He doesn't need to turn to know her face is that familiar blotchy red.

“Shut up!” she admonishes, spurring onward and then, then he is momentarily distracted by the light pouring in from the end of the tunnel. He still has eight minutes on the clock so he hurries past. Whatever cavalry is waiting on the outside has to go through him first. _I won’t let them touch Brienne, not on my watch._

When he does get to mouth of the tunnel, a shadow of something swoops past him. He turns his head but the suit is ill-equipped. He cannot attack anything that is not in the direct line of his sight.

Somewhere behind him Brienne _screams._

\--

There’s warm liquid pooling at her side, and her head feels too heavy to raise off the ground. A crushing weight bears down on her. She can hear someone calling her name, but its distant, so distant she could easily ignore it. Just wants to fall back asleep. But the ground is hard and cold and cutting into her back and there’s a vigorous shake on her shoulder, a voice calling her name over and over again, getting closer and closer, pulling her to consciousness. It’s awful.

Prying her eyes open with a groan, she finds Jaime trying to kick something off her. “Oh thank gods! Brienne! Can you get up?”

There’s a numbness to her left side and it’s warm and wet and the air is thick with the smell of blood. She manages to help Jaime shove a man off as it all comes rushing back to her. He had shoved her onto the ground, bared his sharp teeth at her with a grin. Brienne had emptied a mag into him just as his teeth bit into her flesh.

“I’m fine” she says weakly, clutching at her left side that comes away wet and slippery, “Jaime, I think I’ve been stabbed.”

“You think?!” Jaime is incredulous, his helmet pulled back and his hair is a big blonde mess. His green eyes wide with worry as they land on the blotch of blood seeping through her shirt. “Can you walk?” he asks, voice dry with distress.

“Yes” she replies, stumbling only a little. She presses down on the wound but her medical training isn’t helping much with how lightheaded she feels right now. Her eyes focus on the blue glow on his chest. It faintly illuminates the dim passageway, the space between them. _He is running out of time. _“Jaime,” she tries to say, leaning against the wall of the cave, “Jaime you have to go, you—”

“No” he shakes his hand adamantly, “Come on, I'll carry you.”

“Jaime, I’m too heavy you can’t—”

“I’m strong enough” He persists, trying to reach for her, “come on, you can lean on me.”

“The longer you waste here,” she hisses at him, “the less time you’ll have outside!”

“I am _not _leaving without you!” he growls and reaches for her arm, “I owe you a debt! You saved my life.”

Her limbs are wobbly, her face too warm and Jaime doesn’t wait for her to respond. He slings her arm around his shoulder, steadying her against himself. She lets him.

“Just this once, Brienne” Jaime says, his voice too close, too tender against her hair, “Let me save yours.”

\--

The sound of bullets break against the walls of the tunnel, bouncing off the metal of his armor, all the fire and screaming and everything going up in flames around him. The noise is _deafening._

He runs. Brienne slung close on his shoulders, shielding her from the onslaught of fire by his own body. His limbs start to tire and he’s starting to feel the weight of the armor, the metal heavy on every inch of him, dragging him to the ground.

But they keep running, panting and he isn’t sure anymore if he is supporting Brienne or if she is the one holding him upright.

\--

There is chaos behind them and they don’t stop, willing their feet to carry them further, painful steps one in front of the other over and over again, their muscles burning as they pant and stumble when they can’t run anymore. Somewhere after a few paces, Brienne puts her hand on his shoulder, shoves the helmet off and says_, it’s weighing you down, Jaime we won't make it... take off the armor._

He does.

\--

They do make it out alive. Somehow by some miracle, Brienne doesn’t collapse of blood-loss and Jaime manages to detonate the other Lannister weapons in the vicinity as distraction. They don’t know if they got Hoat but Jaime sheds the armor once they are far enough to disguise their trail and then it’s just them, listening for sounds of pursuit, sleepless as they wander about The Whispering Woods, hoping they run into somebody while evading running into anybody at all, afraid of recapture.

Brienne is weak against him but she had the sensibility to make him leave the metal coffin behind and the arc reactor in his chest is still bright, still humming, and he is still alive. She made him shed the armor when the timer on the suit clocked at a little over thirteen minutes. She said that it should give the reactor in his chest more time and Jaime doesn’t admit that he hadn’t intended on getting out of this alive. He hadn’t planned on surviving beyond those fifteen minutes.

“Why didn’t I think of that before?” he mocks to hide that indeed, he hadn’t thought of it. One minute less in that suit gives him at least fifty years too many to hold back the thorns itching to tear into his heart. He wasn’t sure if he wanted that.

“For someone so smart, you can be really stupid, Jaime.” Brienne teases because she knows, she knows he hadn't thought of it and there isn’t any malice in her voice just a familiar annoyance and he knows she’s teasing him because even though she’s pale from the bloodloss, there’s a smile at the corner of her lips. She hadn’t thought they’d escape either, certainly not together, that had been too good to be true.

In the dark of the night, illuminated only by the fire they’re running away from, they couldn’t tell where they were going. Only the forest and the wide expanse of its listlessness. They rest in the undergrowth when they can’t run anymore, and Jaime inspects her stab wound. _It didn’t get any major organs_, she sounds a little too sure when she says it and Jaime wants voice his doubt but then she follows it up with_ if it did I’d be bleeding to death by now._

But the bleeding has stopped and she tries not to wince too much as Jaime tears off the sleeve of his shirt and gently dabs at the wound on her face.

He tries not to think of his heart pounding away in his chest, writes it off as adrenaline. Tries to tell himself it’s_ not _because of the way she’s looking at him right now; stomps on the wandering hope that fixates too much on what that look in her gaze means.

—

As they continue to run, to hide and run again in turn, the sky starts to lighten around them. She lets Jaime lead, keeping her eyes on him as she trails behind him, watching out for any noise any shuffling in the forest.

She almost runs smack into him when he stops up short all of a sudden.

“”What, what is it?” she whispers, squinting harder in the growing light of the dawn.

“It’s been awhile since I last saw sunlight” his voice is soft, far away. A slow smile breaks on his face.

When he looks back at her, like he wants to share this moment with her, his eyes are so green, so alight, unlike anything she’s ever seen before and Brienne can’t help smiling back at him.

“We’re not out of the woods yet” she says lightly, not wanting to break the spell. She starts treading ahead of him quietly.

“…yet_._” she hears him repeat under his breath as he follows her close behind.

\--

When the first cottage comes into view, tediously long hours later, Jaime pulls Brienne with him, stumbling towards the cottage like a madman, his limbs aching from exertion and his breath already shallow. He has to catch his breath before he’s gotten half as close as he thought he would by now.

“My… _wife!_” he shouts at the old woman stands near her fence, and points at Brienne. He wonders if that has annoyed her and through the corner of his eye, he can see her face burning with murderous intent. It makes him foolishly happy. She elbows him and he winces audibly but he can’t stop grinning.

“I will kill you” she promises.

“Just go along with it, _wife”_ he whispers under his breath, trying to pull himself together and not smile so goddamn much.

Oh, the simple joys of having Brienne blush as red as his house colours. It’s unparalleled. He’s panting for breath when he catches up to the old woman who looks on at the pair of them, thunderstruck.

“My wife,” Jaime says with conviction, arms tightening around Brienne, “she's injured, please. She needs help.”

Five minutes later, as Brienne stubbornly insists on stitching up her wound all by herself, Jaime borrows the woman’s phone and steps out. He makes a call he hasn’t made in three years.

\--

It doesn’t matter that he calls her. She doesn’t pick up anyway.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime makes some decisions that not everyone is happy with; discovers some scathing information regarding his abduction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I've plotted out the story (finally) and now that I have more than 12% of a plan, I hope you guys enjoy the rest of what is to come! We're only getting started :)

Addam Marbrand is the first familiar face he sees after two whole months in a cell and the relief of it hits like a tidal wave when Addam hugs him.

“Fuck Jaime, what the hell happened…” he murmurs as he scans over every inch of him like a hawk, gauzing for injuries, and then says though clenched teeth, “next time you refuse the security detail I assign you, I will remind you _ exactly _ what happened _ when you refused the security detail i assigned you _.”

“They couldn’t have saved me from a blast, Addam.” Jaime tries to laugh, winces instead under Adam’s strong grip.

“no, but they could’ve—” Addam lets go immediately, stopping mid-sentence as he asks, “what’s wrong?” 

His best friend’s eyes linger on his chest suspiciously. Addam opens his mouth to form a question but he is interrupted by Tyrion, who comes at his heels, running. His face is wrought with worry and mirrors the same relief Jaime feels so he goes to his knees and hugs his brother so hard his eyes sting.

“Gods, Jaime…” Tyrion pulls back to look at him and then hugs him again, his eyes darting curiously to his chest. He must have felt the cold metal too. When Tyrion speaks, there is a wetness to his voice, “I didn’t believe it when I got your call. It’s been—”

“Two months, I know,” Jaime says when they finally break from the hug, “I’m glad to see you, brother.”

“Me too, Jaime,” Tyrion says as Jaime gets back on his feet, “Gods, we thought you were dead.”

“Almost” Jaime corrects and looks at Tyrion with impervious eyes, “Now. Did you or did you_ not _ get me the big Hershey chocolate bar I asked.”

Tyrion scrunches his brow apprehensively in a way that reminds him of Brienne. He grins as Tyrion places the bar of chocolate flat against Jaime’s chest. “Do you know what it's like to get a call from the brother you thought was dead and the first thing to hear from him is ‘_ grab a bar of Hershey's real quick I'm alive’ _?" he asks as Jaime starts to unwrap the chocolate, tilting his chin to the direction of the cottage, "and what do you mean 'almost'?" Tyrion persists.

“Come on,” he says, leading the way, gesturing for Addam to follow as well, “I’ve got someone I’d like you two to meet.”

—

Jaime’s rescue consists of Colonel Addam Marbrand, whom Brienne is familiar with from training in King’s Landing and his brother Tyrion. Colonel Marbrand quirks a curious eye at her and when he addresses her _ (“Captain Tarth? Haven’t seen you since King’s Landing?”) _ Brienne gives him a rudimentary run-down of how her journey brought her in Jaime’s Lannister’s orbit while Jaime bites into the chocolate bar he _ insisted _ Tyrion bring. _ I’ve gone two months without eating chocolate this is real torture, _ he’d grumbled while they waited. He looks particularly ecstatic with his sugar rush now, although he makes a confused face at Brienne and Addam.

“You two know each other?” he gapes, incredulous.

“Colonel Marbrand trained with me when I was posted in King’s Landing.”

“The 107th Regiment. Tarth was one of my best Lieutenants.” Marbrand confirms and Brienne can feel her cheeks warm at the compliment. Addam nods at her, his smile genuine, “it’s good to see you, Brienne.”

“You too, Addam.” Brienne replies a bit awkwardly, hoping she isn’t being disrespectful by referring to him by first name outside the confines of military rank. But he did it first, so.. So it’s alright, right? _ right? _

Jaime’s eyes linger only a second too long on Brienne’s heated cheeks, his eyebrows slightly furrowed before Tyrion Lannister coughs and Jaime returns to making introductions through impolite mouthfuls of chocolate. Tyrion Lannister is as sharp as Jaime bragged so smugly about (he can get very talkative when he’s working) but Tyrion is nothing like the golden Lannister Brienne had imagined and it is all the more better for it. His stunted height can barely mask his lofty personality. Jaime watches her keenly as she talks to Tyrion, and smiles goofily when Tyrion makes a joke at his expense that makes her laugh as well. With his mismatched eyes and curly mop of dark and blonde hair, Tyrion has none of Jaime’s good looks but all of his easy charm. He is nice enough to her from the get go and unlike Jaime, kind even as he thanked her profusely for saving his brother’s life.

Both Addam and Tyrion sit horrified and awestruck as Jaime explains the mechanics of the arc reactor in his chest and their eyes flicker from Jaime to Brienne every now and then as Brienne fills in details when Jaime is busy chomping on his chocolate to narrate the circumstances of their escape. Brienne watches them as they sit in shocked silence, processing it all.

“So… shouldn’t we be going?” Brienne shifts in her seat uncomfortably, looking away from Jaime's gaze.

“Yes, of course,” Tyrion remarks, breaking out of the spell, “we have to get you two to a hospital.” and then he says directly to his brother, “we have to get that looked at, Jaime it could be infected.”

“Do _ you _ think it’s infected?” Jaime asks her directly, pulling his dirty shirt down for her to get a better glimpse at the reactor in his chest.

“Not yet.” she says from her perch at the table.

Jaime just pouts like a child and mumbles, “you’re not even looking, babe.”

Brienne finds herself startled, the tips of her ears heating up at his liberal use of a pet name like _ that _ and stutters out, “J-Jaime, you can get the finest surgeons at the Citadel to give their medical opinion on that.”

“I don’t want _ their _ medical opinion,” Jaime shrugs and shifts to his left on the couch, leaving space next to him, “I want yours.”

Brienne sighs exaggeratedly as she takes a seat beside him. She pushes his ragged shirt lower still until she can see the full circle of the reactor. Jaime’s muscles tense as she rests her palm on top of the reactor, it’s soft hum underneath her fingers as she grazes the tender skin gently, examining it. Every time she touches his warmth, feels his heartbeat under her palm, a wave of heat travels from her fingertips to her heart, making it thump louder in her chest. _ Stop being a silly girl _, she scolds herself and concentrates on the job, checking for bleeding, for any signs of infections or deterioration and smiles to herself when there are none.

“So far so good.” she declares, looking up to find Jaime’s eyes already fixated on hers. There’s something in them, two bright pools of green looking at her in a way that sends a rush of blood to her cheeks. She looks away, only to meet Tyrion’s eyes, who is watching the two of them peculiarly. Addam’s face gleams with a mischievous glee which Brienne is all too familiar with. It means nothing but trouble. She hopes he isn’t as good at reading her as he used to be. A silence has settled over the room that makes her feel too exposed, too_ seen _. 

Brienne stands up abruptly, hugging herself in a way that makes her self-conscious but she can’t stop, “Do you have a phone I can use?”

\--

Her father almost breaks down crying when he hears her voice. He asks her when she’s coming home. _ Soon _ , she says, _ I’ll see you soon _.

“Is Renly…?” she starts to ask but her father doesn’t know. Hasn’t heard from him either.

“Try Margaery. Or Loras.” her father suggests before telling her again to come home.

_ Soon _ , she promises again, her hand lingering on the damaged cheek that has now stopped bleeding, _ I’ll see you soon _.

—

_ Time is of the essence _, Adam swears as he sets off with his soldiers to navigate their way to the cave, despite Jaime’s repeated reminders that there aren’t any likely survivors because everything was burning when they left. Addam doesn’t let up easy, notes how they’ve already lost six hours since the incident and Jaime can see the fiery need in his eyes to find those who were responsible and he decides better than to tell Addam how to do his job. With a parting hug and a curt, friendly nod at Brienne, Addam sets off.

Uncle Kevan is waiting with the jet that Tyrion called in only later when Jaime insisted that he _ must _ go to King’s Landing and not the Rock, not to Tyrion’s place in Braavos, not to the Citadel, not anywhere else. Tyrion relents and while Jaime understands Tyrion’s concern, he feels has to do more, _ be _ more before he can rest. He can’t run away or hide, he can only accept these challenges head-on, even if he doesn’t like it. 

He greets the uncle who has been more of a father to him than his own with a warm smile. Uncle Kevan pats his left shoulder and smiles back warmly. 

“It’s so good to see you, Jaime.” There’s a kindness in his eyes that he’s never seen in his father’s.

“You too, Uncle Kevan.” Jaime smiles back. He must ask though, he’d thought better of it than to ask Tyrion but he must ask Uncle Kevan.

“About father...” he starts to say, “...is he really…?” 

Uncle Kevan’s brows knit as nods slowly, grimly and Jaime feels a scratch of grief on his inside of his chest. He hadn’t realized that he’d been holding out hope still. 

“How did it happen?”

“Car accident. It’s suspicious, because your father doesn’t drink and drive but...” His uncle sighs, his lips drawn thin, “there were no leads. The funeral was two weeks ago. It’s been difficult.”

Of course it has. The vultures have been circling forever. Their father’s icy glare and spine of steel had kept the hungry beasts at bay, but now that Tywin Lannister was dead… With him died the iron grip that held their reins. There was no shield to hold off the hungry claws come to claim a lion’s share, to feast on Tywin’s wrought iron empire.

“You inherited the company, of course.” Uncle Kevan continues, “Your sister is managing it in your stead.”

His sister. Cersei. Older than him by twelve minutes and smarter than him by twelve eons when it comes to navigating corporate politics. Jaime had never been good at that. He was simple, good at just _ making _ the armada, not marketing it or securing deals for it like Tywin and Cersei were. She was their father’s heir even if their father, set in his old-fashioned way, refused to see it. She’d tried to control Jaime when he was younger, manipulate him to her will and have him do only what _ she _ thought was right. It had alienated Tyrion when they were growing up, and later Jaime when he went away to college, away from her and learned for the first time, to not be so codependent. He has learnt to keep his distance since. He started to see her for what she was, sneering and controlling, prioritizing power over everything else in her attempt to play the long game. And she’d played it so hard she had lost both her brothers to it. _ Father would’ve been proud of her, _ Jaime thinks bitterly, _ if he so much even paid any kind of attention to her. _

But now Tywin Lannister is dead. And Jaime was the de facto CEO of Lannister Corporations. Cersei can’t be happy about that. The thought of the company makes his head pound and Jaime rubs his eyes, exhausted. He reassures his uncle they’ll talk about it more when they land.

Brienne is already seated, getting her stab wound re-examined because Jaime insisted again (she was too cocksure that she was _ fine _) and turns out, she was right. Except for loss of blood, she is otherwise unharmed. Medic gives her some painkillers, puts some antiseptic and a bandage on her face-wound and leaves her to rest.

Jaime takes the seat next to her and gingerly rests his hand on hers. She is warm, asleep. He smiles to himself, settling back in his seat as exhaustion overcomes him and he dozes off next to her.

—

“Tyrion, I said no hospitals.” Jaime hisses beside her, “Brienne said I’m fine which means _ I’m fine _.”

“Jaime you have a hole in your chest!” Tyrion hisses back at him. It’s almost sweet how they’re both trying to keep from waking her and are both doing such a terrible job at it.

“Oh do I? I hadn’t noticed!” Jaime snarks, in the same hushed tone, “I need you to do something else for me first.”

\--

“A press conference?” Uncle Kevan raises his eyebrow, concerned, “Jaime, we need to get you to a hospit—”

“No hospitals!” Jaime almost growls, fixing the collar of his freshly pressed shirt. Tyrion and Uncle Kevan exchange a look. Jaime wanted to go home and take a long shower but there’s something else he must do, something far more important than anything he’s ever done.

Jaime presses the tie neatly down his chest, hiding the arc reactor under it. His hand lingers on the faint blue glow of the reactor seeping through the fabric of his shirt. A miniaturized source of immense power that he knows not what to do with. He still hasn’t gotten used to the weight of it.

It feels like a responsibility almost as much as it feels like a curse.

—

“Jaime, I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing here.” Brienne says, frowning. Muffled voices float past her as she stands in the wings, the sounds of reporters, newscasters, all kinds of press settling in the room, making her anxious. She is not made for the cameras, she knows that too well. And now with a bandage on her face...

Jaime looks fresh in his tailored suit, his fingers buried in his trouser pockets. He masks the tension on his brow behind a charming grin that makes Brienne’s stomach swoop. She knew he was attractive, had always known it. But spending time with him in grime and dirt had made her almost forget how well he cleaned up. Easy smiles, shining eyes, golden hair. His face was one that was made for the cameras.

Brienne’s was not.

“I need you here.” he says, reaching for her hand and giving it a soft squeeze.

“Jaime, I’m not really comfortable…” she trails off, shifting her weight nervously.

“You can stay back here,” he tells her, “I won’t ask you to come on stage, I just need you here,” His eyes bore into hers and _ how _ can she refuse him when he follows it up with an almost inaudible, “ _ please? _”

“Fine,” she grumbles, pulling her hand away in the fear that he’ll feel her racing pulse in her fingertips, “but you owe me. And what are you going to say out there, anyway?”

“I owe you” he agrees immediately, and then, very earnestly with that shit-eating grin, he says, “You’ll see.” as his name is announced and very suavely, Jaime walks over to the podium.

—

The crowd loves him. They always love the show of it, the image they’ve built of him until they hate him all over again, an unending cycle of pretense that now makes Jaime feel bone-weary. After fielding a couple of questions to confirm in a roundabout way to the reporters, to people, to everyone watching that he is _ indeed _ of sound mind and health, Jaime figures it’s time to drop the pretense and get to the fucking point.

He glances out the side of his eye at Brienne, standing by the wings, biting into some cookies that had been served and takes strength from that.

“Everything I experienced during my captivity,” Jaime starts, “has forced me to reconsider my position as a civilian, as an inventor and the now, as the heir of Lannister Corps.”

Uncle Kevan is squinting at him, but Tyrion hides his confusion better.

“Which is why I am _ shutting down _ ” Jaime stresses, “Lannister Corporations’ Arms and Military Assistance program _ effective immediately _ .” the crowd is already erupting with questions, but Jaime has to go on the record, make himself crystal clear over the commotion, “We will _ not _ be assisting the crown in any further war endeavors. This is our public statement of withdrawal. And no, I will _ not _ be taking any more questions.”

Uncle Kevan and Tyrion to his left, staring at him, stupefied. Surely they must all think he’s lost his mind. But he’s so sure about this, surer than he’s ever been about anything before. He glances at Brienne. Her astonishing eyes are on him too, wide with surprise and her mouth hangs open just a little. She is like an open book; he can read the confusion and shock etched there for him to see. But he could swear, he would swear that when she blinks, there’s a flicker of something good, _ approving _ even in there too. 

Oh how long he’s wanted to earn that.

Uncle Kevan and Tyrion usher him from the podium, into the wings and they’re mumbling excuses, trying to pacify the crowd that squawks for answers to _ what is a weapons company that doesn’t make weapons? Is this Tywin’s legacy? _ and all sorts of dramatic headlines that will plummet the stocks in a heartbeat. Jaime knows his actions will cost them millions of dragons in gold. Did he do the right thing? He doesn’t know, but it feels right; it feels _ so right _ for once…

He searches Brienne’s face desperately and catches the slight twitch of her mouth only because he is staring too hard. It’s just a fraction of a smile but it makes her eyes soften. Under the light of her gaze, Jaime feels the uproar settle in his chest.

Her smallest smile is all the assurance he needs.

—

“Have you gone fucking insane?!” Cersei’s call comes not five minutes later as Jaime is being ushered into his car and Tyrion hands him the phone with a very concerned expression.

“And I missed you too, sister.” Jaime chimes as he gets in the car. Tyrion slides into the seat across.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” her voice is tight and frantic, “How dare you make such a drastic announcement without consulting me?!”

“I tried but you never picked up.” Jaime shoots backs, “did you even _ know _ that I was abducted?”

“Of course I knew!”

“And you still didn’t call, not even once.”

Brienne glimpses at him then, looking vaguely concerned. Jaime shakes his head with a casual grimace to reassure her that this is_ Lannister normal _. This is how his family is, how his conversations with Cersei has been since college.

“I have a company to manage, Jaime.” Her voice is dripping acid, “ever since father died it’s my responsibility to—”

“Oh, father this, father that!” Jaime says, “Stop trying to be him, Cersei. Uncle Kevan told me I’m the one who inherited the damn company anyway s—”

“And aren’t you making a proper mess of it!” Cersei sneers, “your _ first day _ as CEO and you’ve shut down our biggest sector!”

“I’m doing what we should’ve done a long time ago!”

“Uproot everything father built? Yes, that sounds _ exactly _like you! Liste, Jai—”

“No, you listen to me Cersei.” Jaime’s head throbs but he won’t back down from his sister, not now. “I won’t arm the military anymore. Seventy percent of the shares belong to me, so I’ve got the power to veto literally anything I want and I’m shutting down the whole rotten lot o—”

“Our business is with the crown!” Cersei cautions, her voice an angry whisper, “This isn’t some corporate deal that can fall through Jaime, this is _ the fucking Crown _ . Aerys will _ not _be happy about this!”

“Fuck Aerys! The war’s been on for two years, Cersei!”

“And you refusing to do business with the crown is suddenly going to stop it?” Her laugh is mocking, “I knew you were an idealist, not such a godsdamned fool!”

“I saw people _ die _ because of the weapons I’ve made!” Jaime says through clenched teeth, “I won’t be a part of this anymore. I won’t let this company be a part of it anymore either.”

He hangs up on her, anger frothing in his mouth. She was his sister, his twin. And yet they could not be more different. _ She didn’t even ask if I was okay _ , a voice squeaks inside his head. It has the insistence of an eight year old boy who would follow his sister everywhere, do everything she asked and how she asked it, would do _ anything _ to make his twin smile.

But Cersei wasn’t that girl anymore. Hadn’t been her for a long, long time.

_ Good. _ Jaime wasn’t that little boy anymore either.

—

“Well…” Tyrion clears his throat after a few minutes of silence, “_ that _ was something. What did she say?”

“The usual,” Jaime shrugs, “she didn’t take it well.”

“Of course not” Tyrion presses his mouth in a tight line before speaking, “but, Jaime. Are you sure about this?”

“I haven’t been surer of anything else in my life.”

Tyrion seems to choose his words carefully, the streetlights casting horizontal stripes of yellow on his face every now and then. He says, “Jaime, the whole company is about making weapons, though. That’s the whole revenue.”

“Then we’ll find something else.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, something to do with this?” he thrums his forefinger against the arc reactor, “I meant what I said, Tyrion.” Jaime leans forward in his seat, his eyes on his brother, “Father’s empire is built on bloodshed. If I could walk away from this, I would.”

“Oh I know,” Tyrion raises his hands in surrender, “that’s why I snuck out of this mess years ago.”

“You were always the smartest one.”

“If only you came along with me when I asked,” Tyrion tuts, “none of this would’ve happened.”

Jaime had wanted to then, when Tyrion asked him two years ago. _ Hey Jaime _ , he’d said, _ I’m moving to Braavos and opening a bar there. Do you want to come? _The prospect of never having to deal with his father had seemed so lucrative, and yet Jaime had turned him down. His life then was all about earning even the slightest validation from Tywin Lannister. He made anything it took to get his father to sven smile at him.

It feels hard to believe that was only two years ago.

“No,” Jaime’s mouth is a measured frown, “that’s not for me.”

“Then what is for you?”

“Well, first,” Jaime holds his fingers up, “I’ll have to ask Uncle Kevan to reinstate the employees into a new sector. I’m thinking, clean energy, but I’ll have to work some more on that. Until then, they can be suspended with pay.”

“_ With _ pay?”

“Yes.” Jaime shrugs, “Can’t fire them for no reason.”

“Father would.” Tyrion says, rightly so.

Jaime’s jaw tightens as he watches Tyrion consider it over in his head. Then slowly, Tyrion nods.

“You should’ve just come with me to Braavos, away from father.” Tyrion shrugs wistfully, “could’ve been a good start. A second chance for both of us.”

Jaime’s face remains impassive. His brother doesn’t know, doesn’t understand. He can’t, not the way Jaime does. He isn’t responsible the way Jaime is. He sneaks a glance at Brienne from the corner of his eye, her head leaning against the car window as she listens to them. She hasn’t spoken a word yet, but she has the ghost of a smile on her face, and that’s enough.

“I got my second chance right here, Tyrion.”

\--

During the car ride to Jaime’s place, Brienne tried her best to stay out of the family drama. The brothers had been engrossed in their own conversation and Brienne didn’t want to interrupt or interfere in the already complicated Lannister sibling dynamics. She had no idea Jaime’s relationship with his sister so was fraught and realizes only too late why he never mentioned her even once during their captivity.

Brienne had offered to find a hotel nearby but Jaime was adamant that if she had tolerated him for two months, one night should not be too difficult while he led her to the car that would take them to his house on Visenya’s Hill, where only the posh elites lived. Brienne could sell their island and still not afford a house on this expensive side of King’s Landing.

“You snoozing, Brienne?” Jaime snaps his fingers under her nose as the car slows to a stop and she has half a mind to thrash that dumb smile off his face. He’s been smiling a lot lately. She hates how it makes her lips twitch too.

“Next time you do that I will break your hand,” she warns as they were ushered into his luxirious house.

—

Brienne stares at herself in the full-length mirror of Jaime’s lavish spare bathroom. It’s shiny and classy, doesn’t look lived in and probably isn’t (Jaime mentioned he lives alone). Her reflection stares back at her. The same old lanky hair, same broad shoulders, same think lips and freckled skin. But her hair is damp and unwashed. Her shoulders jut out sharply, she’s lost muscle mass and her freckled skin looks pallid from the lack of sun. There are purple bruises lining her tired blue eyes and she feels as haggard as she looks.

She strips down to her underwear and undoes the bandage on her face first. Looks at herself again. She has long made peace with what she looks like and it’s not like she’s never had injuries before, but she’s never had one so prominently on her face. The bite mark is red and angry and Brienne_ knows _ it will leave a scar. An ugly scar on an even uglier face.

She finds her lips quivering in the mirror, her eyes watering as the realization sinks in. She can hide the stab wound on her torso with a t-shirt, can hide the bullet scars on her lower leg with slacks. But how would she hide what’s on her face? She has never been pretty and would never be loved and she had accepted that, taken it in her stride. So why did the gods have to curse her again? Why make her homely face even more unpleasant?

Unloveable as she used to be, she’s even more so now. Whatever sliver of hope she used to harbour that she might find someone who tolerates her (he doesn’t even have to like her. loving her is impossible, she knows that. But maybe _ tolerates _ her that would be enough) and maybe she could tolerate him too. But with a face that’s marred, who would even look at her without feeling disgust?

She lets the self-loathing come in waves, drown her as she closes her eyes. She draws long breaths, forces herself to accept this new reality, this new scar that makes her jealous of her previous self for not cherishing how lucky she had it before. _ This is who you are now _ , she tells herself, _ it could have been worse _ before she opened her eyes again. 

The scar is just as ugly, just as red. But the pain of it is numbed down. _ I’ll always be ugly no matter what, what’s another scar. It’s all the same. _ She turns away from her reflection then and turns the hot water on, willing herself to stop thinking about her own ugliness and focus on the water easing her stiff muscles instead. The water works wonders and Brienne feels it leech away the tension from her body. She relaxes as she steps out of the shower, her limbs heavy and languid, aching for rest.

She dresses in silence, in old clothes that Jaime graciously left for her. They'd forgotten to pick up clothes for her on the way here and even though initially the thought of wearing Jaime's clothes made her cheeks redden, when she saw the bed she didn't care what she wore, she just wanted to sleep on it for three months straight.

Jaime had smirked and sneaked in one of his boxer shorts in the pile too and teased that she could keep it if she wanted. That infuriating grin on his face had made her want to hit him, but she restrained herself with much effort. The shorts are a faded gold, his t-shirt a worn-red and as Brienne looks at herself in the mirror again, she feels like a flaming tomato in a boxing ring. The thought of the boxers she's wearing having hung on Jaime's waist previously sends her face flaming even more and the scar blotches an ugly purple and Brienne wants to cry from how much it makes her laugh.

The clothes feel comfortable, freshly washed and for a brief second Brienne wonders who does Jaime's laundry. She can't imagine him doing that for himself, the thought of it makes her snort. Even though his t-shirt is a little tight on her chest, it fits just fine and puts her legs on display because Jaime's shorts barely reach upto her knee, but they are airy and after mucking about in dirt and grime, it feels perfect.

She brushes her teeth, all the while pointedly keeping her eyes from her face and puts some antiseptic on the wound when she has to look at it. She ignores the sting and leaves it open to air dry as she falls face-first onto Jaime’s super-expensive mattress. She falls asleep almost immediately.

—

His lab is how he had left it, messy and dark and quiet in the belly of his house. It stretches into his garage, obscured in the dark that he can’t see. He can barely make out the faint outline of equipment strewn about, computers and papers and all kinds of nonsense he hoards in this space. Empty coffee mugs littered about, a couple of them sitting in the kitchen sink, some as paperweight. His bots stay asleep in the far corner. Jaime stands at the foot of the stairs, outside the glass doors and takes it all in.

“Podrick?” Jaime says aloud and the lights flicker to life inside the lab.

“Sir Jaime,” a familiar voice chimes in, as lights flicker to life inside the lab,

“Fire up the ol’ processors, Pod” Jaime says as he steps into the lab, “and run checks on server security. We’ve had a breach.”

“On it, sir.” Podrick says as Jaime rubs his eyes, placing his new mug of coffee on the nearest table.

“While we’re at it,” Jaime approaches his two assistant bots in the corner of the room, “are these two plugged in?”

“Yes, sir Jaime.” Podrick offers, before going back to running diagnostics, “They’ve been waiting for you.”

"Yeah?" Jaime pushes the mess on the floor, the paper strewn on the table.

"We all have" Podrick says, almost like he's sentient, like he's missed Jaime. Strangely, it tugs at his heart.

"It's good to be back, Podrick."

Pilot One Direct Remote Intelligent Console Kit, or as Jaime likes to call it, P.O.D.R.I.C.K, was Jaime’s personal assistance AI. He was fifteen when he first created it and Tywin frowned because it served no purpose but Jaime liked to think out loud when he’s working. Having Podrick to feed into, and get feedback from as they worked together on anything eased Jaime’s need for easy familiarity in his lab. Podrick controlled his security, his finances everything that he would trust an assistant with if he had one, but after the third assistant his father hired for him was waiting for him naked on his bed, Jaime had signed off assistants altogether. 

Podrick (or Pod as Jaime slips into sometimes) was the closest Jaime had come to trust anyone and even though Tyrion often joked that if ‘the Robot Revolution’ came, Jaime would be the first to fall, since he depended almost entirely, unhealthily on Podrick-- Jaime laughed. He imagines Pod's still too nice for any kind of violence at all.

Jaime picks up a can of machine oil and sits down between the bots and switches them to life. A mechanical three-armed prong almost immediately hits the side of his forehead and knocks him to the floor but Jaime manages to evade it.

“‘morning, Honor.” He says, as he examines the bot for damages and pours machine oil where he things the gears are rusty, “check that for rotation?”

Another arm pokes him in the back and knocks him forward and Jaime says, “You’ve gotten stronger, Glory.” He examines it too for damages, if any parts need replacing. Finding none, Jaime gives a general pat before rising to his feet.

“We have a problem, sir.” Podrick says.

“I suspected as much. Where is it?” 

“Sector B, Section 2.23 of the Servers Main Drive.”

“Pull it on screen for me,” Jaime asks and Pod does, lines of red and blue holograms drawn closer and Jaime zooms in. There in the corner of the drive, is a bug.

“How did it get there, Pod?” Jaime asks aloud. Nobody really visited him enough to put a bug in his systems, “can you physically locate it?”

“On it, sir.”

Jaime sips his mug of coffee, sitting down on the floor next to Honor and Glory with a screwdriver in his hand as he attempts to loosen the rusty bolts and replace them with new ones.

"I'm putting you two on cleaning duty," Jaime mumbles at them as he reprograms them to sort through the junk in his lab, "i was only gone for two months and it looks like you had a party in here. Without _me._"

The bots seem to make an equivalence of a grumble, a pouty whirr as they go about cleaning up the mess all around them.

“I found it.” Pod comes through not two minutes later, “It’s in this lab, sir Jaime. Right here.”

Jaime’s blood runs cold. He’d thought it would be in the Lannister serves up in the headquarters, the offices, but no. This was his own space, his sacred place. Someone had deliberately infiltrated the security of his home to spy on him. The thought of feeling so_ unsafe _ in his own house unnerves Jaime. 

“Where?” he asks as Podrick guides him to the location and Jaime finds it on the underside of his central processing unit.

“Can you run identification on it? Fingerprint scanner, video records, anything? Tally it with employee records on the database.”

“Yes, sir Jaime.”

Jaime’s heart hammers away in his chest. There was a bug in his systems. He knew there would be one, how else would someone find the prototype designs to Lion’s Roar? But the thought of it being _ here _ , where only the people closest to him could have access to him… _ shit. _ A million suspicions ran through his head. The only people who have access to this lab are his immediate family and Addam. Could it have been Cersei, the sibling he doesn’t trust at all? Who wants vengeance and power? Could it have been Uncle Kevan? Constantly shadowed by Tywin’s ambitions? Could it have been Tyrion, even though he had nothing to win from this? Could it have been Addam, of all people? He had just trusted Tyrion and Addam with the secret of his arc reactor, what if—

“I’ve found a match, Sir Jaime.”

“And?” Jaime asks impatiently, “don’t sugarcoat it Podrick, you're about the only one I trust right now.”

There’s a beat before Podrick throws it up in front of him. The face staring down at him from the blown-up holographic record is the one he hadn’t expected to see, not again. Not like this. 

“It’s your father, Sir Jaime. The fingerprints belong to Tywin Lannister.” Pod says slowly, and Jaime feels his whole world tilt as Podrick starts to play a video on the side from the lab’s security feed. Tywin Lannister dropping some files he had brought with him to visit Jaime and planting the bug as he collected his files. Jaime himself was in the back of the video with a wrench and a screwdriver, fixing components to whatever the fuck he had been making back then.

His own father. His own father… was spying on him? And saving it on the Lannister servers too? What if Jaime had checked the surveillance tapes? He never does, but what if he did? _ Tywin knew me too well to know that I wouldn’t _ , he thinks bitterly. His mind is unable to wrap his head around the idea of his own father betraying him, his own father being the reason why he was thrown in the dungeon in the first place. Tywin Lannister being responsible for the abduction of his own son. The breach of privacy is only half as sickening as the breath of paternal responsibility. Weren’t parents supposed to protect their kids? Not be directly responsible for _ the abduction of his own son. _

Jaime hunts down some whiskey from the lower cabinet of his shelf and pours it into his coffee till it touches the brim.

It doesn’t make sense but in a crueler sense, it does make sense. And Jaime hates it. Tywin didn’t even trust his own children. This can’t be news to him. His own father. _ Fuck. _

And now Tywin was dead too. Jaime can’t even ask for answers, can’t do anything but scream at the sky and feel helpless and betrayed and terribly, _ terribly _ alone.

“Would you like for me to erase it, sir?” Podrick’s voice snaps him out of it.

Jaime takes a long sip of the bitter liquid before he answers, “is it still active?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is it feeding to?”

“Casterly Rock, sir. And the Red Keep too.”

“The Red Keep...” Jaime mumbles, thinking it over. His father didn’t visit the Red Keep as much. It makes sense that the feed goes to Casterly Rock, but the Red Keep as well?

“Would you like for me to erase it, sir?” Podrick asks again.

“No!” Jaime replies almost immediately. Something feels terribly suspicious about all of this. And it is a thread. He can’t cut his only thread to answers. “Replicate the bug digitally and isolate the drive. Disconnect the server and reroute all wires to bypass it. Don’t let any data _ ever _touch that server again. Did you search everywhere? Is this the only bug?”

“Everywhere, sir.” Podrick replies diligently, “I was very thorough.” 

“Good,” Jaime nods, finishing his drink, “Secure all my servers personally and don’t let anyone I haven’t authorized through that door.” he jerks a thumb at the glass doors that lead into his workshop, "we're going to have to reinforce security."

"Already on it, Sir Jaime."

Jaime detaches the bug, watches as the digital imprint of it stays in his now-abandoned server. He briefly considers taking the bug apart, but decides against it. It's a simple bug. He had made this too in early days. It's got to be some kind of divine irony how his own tech comes back to bite him in the ass because he wasn't careful with it.

He takes the closest hammer and smashes the bug to bits. It doesn't feel enough. He has to do more, more to make amends if not undo the harm he's caused. To himself, to others to everyone around him and far. He has to do more. He has to have _more_ to offer to this world than just blowing things up. He should be more than a person who only causes death and destruction in his wake. _You could do so much more,_ Brienne's voice from his dream haunts him, _why didn't you do more?_

"Pod, what I’m about to make now is to stay strictly off servers, _ do you understand me? _”

“Yes, sir.” Podrick replies just as seriously and Jaime puts the coffee cup down.

“Great. Pull up the drawing board.” Jaime orders, plopping into his thinking chair and stretching his limbs. He flexes his neck muscles before picking up a digital pen and starts scrawling away on the canvas Podrick has drawn for him on his smartdesk, “we have a long night ahead of us.”

\--

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to make this a one-shot, but turns out it might turn into a 30k fic and multichapter might be a good way to go about it since I've already written about 11.5k so I'll update twice weekly.
> 
> Also, here's the [moodboard](https://lionoflannistarth.tumblr.com/post/186698013909/marvel-au-where-jaime-lannister-is-lionheart-iron) that I made specifically for this. :)


End file.
